A Soldier's Business

“War is the soldier's business.” –from dictionary.com

The sun beats down on the smoldering, hot sand. Its rays cause a white glare that stares into the face of the soldier.  The wind blows sand into his eyes. The sand tears into the outer layer of his eye balls with every blink. It stings his skin as if more than a thousand bees were attacking him. The sweat runs down his head and body like a waterfall of saltwater. It mixes with the layer of sand and creates a gritty, sticky layer on his epidermis. He wears it like skin because he knows it will be days before he can bathe and wash it off, if he ever gets the chance. It becomes a part of him just as the soldiers’ life has become part of him. It has been three days since his squad left for their mission. It has been two and half days since everyone else was killed. They had been caught in a firestorm. The bullets rained down as if they had been only watery droplets. The hail of grenades became mixed with the rain. By the time the enemies had ceased fire, he was the only one left. Now he is stranded in the middle of a sandy desert; it is the devil’s den of death. In the soldier’s head, he hears the last words of his father’s letter repeated over and over again: Be careful, son. We love you, and we’re all praying for you. He begins to pray. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t shout in anger or vent in frustration. He simply prays the words of David from Psalm 144. Blessed be the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle… It’s a prayer of rescue rather than anger. After all, this is a soldier’s business.